


harbours of my own

by the_ragnarok



Series: harbours of my own [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Asexual Character, Cats, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Loneliness, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Platonic Cuddling, Relationship Negotiation, Tags May Change, Therapy, Top Drop, ace subtype: no sex please, brief martin/peter (fade to black), jonathan sims and tim stoker are cuddle buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: “You have so much love to give, Martin," says his therapist. "You deserve someone who’ll return it.”Currently, what Martin has is a lot of pointless one night stands, one friend with kinky and cuddly benefits, and a cat he stole. That will have to do.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: harbours of my own [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013106
Comments: 306
Kudos: 452





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a somewhat different tone than the first fic, less fluffy and more emotionally painful, but they'll get there.

The place Jon picked for their date is nice. Understated, not too expensive, good variety of menu options. Jon ordered tea and left it untouched on the table before him, steam wafting gently and fogging his glasses as he looked down at his hands. He's been fidgeting since they sat down.

"Is anything wrong?" Martin finally breaks down and asks.

Jon hunches in on himself, and Martin's heart sinks. "Is this a date?" Jon says. He sounds resigned. 

Shit. Despite himself, Martin flinches. He manages to recover with a, "Do you want it to be?"

Jon rakes a slightly trembling hand through his hair. "See, that's where it gets complicated. I don't..." he hesitates, looking around them. The place is fairly empty, so Jon says quietly, "I did want to play with you, and I still do. But dating, relationships..." he spreads his arms helplessly.

Okay, this is salvageable. Martin rallies. "So, you're saying you're looking for a play partner but not a romantic relationship?"

Jon's mouth purses. "I want to be friends, though. I mean it. I'm not interested in playing with someone if we can't hold a conversation or, ah," he darts another look around and lowers his voice, "cuddle."

Martin was hoping for a romantic kind of connection, he won't deny it, but he likes Jon, who cuddles so shamelessly when drunk and shies from the very word when he’s sober. "Sure," he says. Friends with benefits can be fun, so long as they were actually friends.

* * *

Melissa's forehead wrinkles as Martin tells her about the encounter. "I know what you're going to say," Martin forestalls her. "But it's not like we're exclusive. I'm not giving up anything by scening with Jon. You did say I should have more friends."

"I meant outside the kink scene," Melissa says, exasperated. 

Martin has his doubts about that. He'd gone through two other therapists before Melissa, one who turned out to be a TERF and a CBT-focused one who did absolutely nothing for him. Turns out that when you're already used to ignoring what you're feeling and getting shit done, you need therapy that isn't focused on behavior. Melissa's helped him a bunch, but she's a bit over-wary about the kink scene and where Martin connects with it.

"Anyway, if you're having sex," Melissa continues, "I'm not sure that's exactly friendship."

"Friend with benefits," Martin repeats. "Friendship's right in the name. And we're not having sex, anyway, he's not into that." That had come up later in the date. Which wasn’t a date.

Melissa's expression goes from dismay into confusion. "Kink... but not sex."

"Yes," Martin says slowly. "Like most of what I've been doing recently." Christ, was she even listening to him? Maybe it was time to shop for a new therapist. Except Martin knows he doesn't have the energy to bring a new one up to speed, and Melissa's rates were affordable. "Probably impact - he showed interest in my paddle when we first met."

Melissa hummed. "I see. Well, alright, so long as you're having fun. But I worry, Martin. You get attached very quickly, and not always to people who are worth it."

"That's assuming I'm worth it," Martin jokes. Mostly jokes.

Melissa's gaze turns serious. "You are." She says it with such intensity that he almost believes her. Maybe that's why he keeps going to her after all. “You have so much love to give, Martin. You deserve someone who’ll return it.”

* * *

So he keeps his options open. Two days later, he makes eye contact with an older white man who saunters to him and makes roundabout conversation. Martin can only make out every third word he says over the loud music, but it doesn’t sound like he’s missing much. 

On the other hand, the guy leans suggestively close. His body is warm and Martin was never very good at delaying gratification. He follows the man home. 

The man - Peter - seems resolved to shove Martin as fast as he can toward the bedroom, but Martin’s distracted by a bag of cat food. “Oh, you have a cat?”

“In the other room,” Peter says. “It’s not allowed out when I have… company.” He rakes his eyes blatantly over Martin’s body. Martin weighs his options and lets Peter hurry him along. He can try to pet the cat later.

* * *

For all of the next morning and some of the afternoon, Martin is curled up on his bed at home. He can’t seem to get warm. At least he didn’t have to go to work today. 

Peter… Peter was _fine_. Hadn’t pushed, hadn’t crossed any boundaries. 

_And hadn’t let you stay for so much as a cup of tea after,_ Martin thinks, and shakes his head. This again. What did he expect, going home with a random stranger whose name he barely caught?

He eyes his phone with misgivings. Melissa emphatically said to call her if it happened again. But he feels weird doing that. The sessions he pays for, but this? It feels an awful lot like an imposition. Besides, what if she just uses the opportunity to say _I told you so_? He couldn’t stand that now. 

He just needs to hang in there. This mood will pass. They always do. 

Fuck, Martin’s cold. He’d do anything for someone to hold, just now.

* * *

“You didn’t.” 

Jon’s got his face buried in his hands, but Tim’s disbelieving voice follows him to this meagre hiding spot. “I assure you I did.”

“Jon, I hate to ask this, but what’s wrong with you?”

“I wish I knew.” Jon lets out a heavy sigh. It might have explained that whole mess with Georgie, as well. 

“Hey.” Tim’s large hand lands on Jon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, and I shouldn’t have said it. There isn’t anything wrong with you.” 

Jon’s mouth twists, but he lets that debatable statement go unchallenged. 

“It’s just that you like him. I can tell. Anyone with eyes can tell.” The table creaks lightly as Tim attempts to park his arse on it, despite Jon’s many attempts to explain that his kitchen table was not a sofa. “He’s into you, and he seems like a genuinely sweet person. Why not date him?”

“Because it will end horribly!” Jon straightens up all at once, throwing his arms in exasperation. “All of my relationships this far have ended with me never talking to that person again.”

“Jon,” Tim says carefully, “you’ve dated two people in your entire life.”

“And now I’m not talking to either of them, am I?” Jon crosses his arms. “100% failure rate. That’s not promising.”

“That’s also not a sample size.” Tim tugs on Jon’s sleeve. “Come to the sofa, will you? You always talk more sense when somebody’s cuddling you.”

“That’s not what you said when I was in Martin’s lap,” Jon mutters, sour, but he follows Tim in a docile enough fashion. 

“Alright, you always talk more sense when _I’m_ cuddling you.”

For form’s sake, Jon protests, “You start petting my hair and all I can do is make incoherent noises.”

“See? Loads more sense than what you’ve been saying.” 

Jon’s about to contest this, but Tim’s hand is making its way to his nape, gripping strongly and turning his brain into goo. “Dating is weird,” he mutters with the last remains of his verbal ability.

“Mm, that it is.” Tim’s scritching him in the nape.

Jon should stick to having cuddle buddies. Those work for him. He hadn’t messed up his relationship with Tim yet, right?

* * *

Martin’s on his way back home from work when his mobile rings. He curses and nearly drops the groceries he picked up into a puddle. 

He doesn’t recognize the number, which makes him answer quickly. Could be one of the nursing home’s attendants calling from their personal device; it’s happened exactly once in all the time his mum's been there, there had been some issue with the local phone network, but it could happen again. No knowing.

The call cuts before he can get his phone. He listens to the voicemail right away, though. 

“Hello, Martin.” The voice has a weird jovial air, a little too cheerful, like he’s trying to sell Martin something.

It’s a different tone than that voice has had last time Martin heard it, but he’s good with voices. 

“You seem like a very responsible person, so I thought I’d ask you for a little favor,” continues Peter’s recorded voice. “As you so astutely noted, I have a cat. And now I find I have to be away on business for some time. If you could feed the cat and water my plants, I’d be very much obliged.” 

“Excuse you?” Martin says, tromping up the stairs to his flat with more force than strictly necessary.

“You will, of course, be compensated - I’ve left a sum of cash in my flat for your troubles. The key is under the houseplant beside the door, and the main door code is four-three-two-one.”

The sheer stupidity of giving a near complete stranger the keys to your home is only just rivaled by the audacity of asking said stranger for a long-term favor. Or, no, not even asking: informing him he’ll be doing it. Martin would be well within his rights to hang up and think no more of this.

He would, he absolutely would, but there is that sum of money. Peter hadn’t named the amount. Judging from his flat, he was loaded. Martin’s no longer so poor it hurts, but every little bit helps, right? Even if it turns out to be a measly amount.

* * *

It’s late in the evening by the time Martin makes it to Peter’s flat. He considered leaving it for another day, but he wants to familiarize himself with the commute and the territory.

It’s just as evidently expensive and barren as Martin remembers. It’s also much bigger than one man, even one with a cat, should need. Martin pokes his head into ugly, minimalist rooms, and on reaching the last room a grey streak shoots out between his legs. Martin curses and hopes devoutly he remembered to close the front door.

When he turns around, though, the cat is right there. The pale gray of its fur is patched with white, and it turns green eyes on Martin. He crouches and reaches out a tentative hand. “Pspsps?”

To his surprise, the cat comes, bypassing his hand to rub its face on Martin’s knee. It startles a little when he shifts into a sitting position, but as soon as he does, it climbs unerringly into his lap and begins to aggressively purr. 

Martin sits with it in its lap until his legs fall asleep, thoughts whirring. It occurs to him that Peter didn’t mention any backup plan, hadn’t so much as considered Martin might not come to feed his cat. Peter didn’t even say the cat’s name. The open room which housed it has a food bowl, a water bowl, a litter box, and that’s it. Not so much as a catnip mouse in sight. 

Martin’s resolve steels itself. He starts to get up. The cat meows plaintively, but doesn’t dig its claws into Martin’s legs, allowing itself to be dislodged with an expression that seems almost resigned. 

A long rummage through Peter’s closets yields a vast array of men’s clothing in dull colors and rather more kink equipment and accessories. No carrying case Martin can find. He ends up stripping the pillow cover from the one on Peter’s bed and putting the cat in it. The cat goes so trustingly that Martin’s heart breaks a little. “There,” he whispers. He’ll have to come back for the rest of the equipment.


	2. Chapter 2

The cat throws up on the way to Martin’s flat, which he supposes it can’t be blamed for. “Poor thing,” he whispers as he tries to extricate it from the pillowcase. “I’m guessing you won’t like the next part, either.”

Martin kneels on the bathroom floor, double-checking that the door is closed. The cat is a bedraggled mess, but it doesn’t try to run away, blinking up at Martin instead. 

He runs the water warm for his sake and the cat’s both. To his delighted surprise, not only does the cat not attempt escape at the first touch of the wet washcloth, it purrs and pushes into it.

“You,” Martin informs it, “are one weird cat.” 

The cat only purrs again, eyes closed as it soaks up the warmth of the water. 

Once the cat is reasonably clean, it - she, rather, now that Martin finally had the chance to check - allows Martin to pat her fur dry. Well, dryer. She climbs in Martin’s lap after, still damp, giving herself over to his petting. 

_Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves._ The poem comes unbidden to Martin’s mind. “How would you like to be called Goose, in the meanwhile?” he asks the cat. He takes her continued purring as assent.

* * *

The flat is spotless, Jon’s been over it three times already. He changed clothes twice. Resolutely, he sits on the couch and texts Tim, _I need to panic at you, are you around?_

Tim answers promptly enough, but his response is, _sry busy panicking myself. tell me tho, misery loves company_

_I’m meeting Martin in half an hour, in my place. He’ll bring his implements._

_ooh fun!_ Tim sends back, with a purple devil emoji. _also preparing for a date here. twinsies!!_

Jon recoils slightly. _It’s not a date._ He frowns. _And I thought you were just meeting Sasha._

_meeting sash yes but for a date!!!!!_

_Ow,_ Jon sends pointedly. _Your exclamation points are stabbing me in the eye. Since when are you and Sasha dating?_

_sry, sry. NEway have fun on not-date,_ Tim sends, completely avoiding Jon’s latter question.

Alright. Twenty five minutes left, now. Jon will not, he will absolutely not spend that time staring out of the window like a captain’s wife waiting for her spouse to return from sea. 

Ten minutes later, he blinks and calls Martin. “So I see you’re hanging out on the street,” he tells him with no preamble. He overrides Martin’s attempt at an apology with, “I promise you that that weirdness is cancelled out by the weirdness of me staring out the window and looking for you. Why don’t you come up?”

It’s only when Jon hangs out that he realizes that conversation was somewhat abrupt. This is exactly the sort of thing that used to drive Georgie insane when they dated. Good things he’s not dating Martin. 

Martin looks nice when Jon opens the door for him: classy but understated, in a dark grey button down and black slacks. Jon tries and fails not to stare at the duffel bag Martin’s got slung over his shoulder.

When he notices where Jon’s attention is focused, Martin laughs. It’s a good sound. Jon gives him a rueful smile back even as he herds Martin to the sofa. 

“Want a look at the goods?” Martin says, good-naturedly. 

Jon hesitates, torn. “You just got here. Isn’t that rude?” He eyes the bag with longing. 

“It’s fine,” Martin says. He sounds so friendly, so genuine. “We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?”

Fuck, this isn’t like Jon. Normally he’s wary as all hell around unfamiliar doms. Martin just disarms him, leaves him curious and soft and affectionate, the way Jon secretly loves to be. “If you’re sure.”

Martin hums in reply and unzips the duffel bag. “Feel free to rummage. Tell me what catches your interest.”

The toybag has a few coils of rope in shades of deep red, which Jon puts back in; a black rubber flogger that he considers and regretfully puts aside as too much; a soft suede flogger that Jon keeps in his lap, along with that wooden paddle from last time. There is a metal chain flogger, which Jon eyes with fascination and trepidation both. “That one seems rather intense.” 

“It can draw blood,” Martin says, “but mostly I use it for sensory play. If you’ll give me your arm?” He opens his hand and waits for Jon to put his hand in it. “May I adjust it?” At Jon’s nod, he positions the proffered arm palm-side up. displaying the inside of his wrist. 

He’s not sure what he expects, but it’s not for Martin to trail the chains gently over his skin. Jon lets out an, “Oh,” without meaning to. It’s cold and heavy, a mesmerizing sensation. He can’t help imagining how that would feel on his back - not hitting, just this. “Um. Can we do that?”

“Of course. Anything else you like?” 

Jon ponders this, then shakes his head. “I’m sure I’d love another look at the rest, but that seems quite enough for now. I’d hate to seem greedy.”

“Nothing wrong with being greedy," Martin says with a smile, "but this is a good start."

After a short discussion, Jon is shirtless, bracing himself against the wall, shivering as the flogger's chains run up and down his back. 

"Good?" Martin prompts a few minutes in. 

"Very." It's whetting Jon's appetite for more. "Maybe some hitting now?"

To his slight disappointment, he hears Martin put down the chain flogger. Jon startles a bit at the first hit of the suede flogger, even though it's more sound than sensation at this point. 

Martin halts. "Alright?"

"Lovely. I'm a little jumpy at first, don't mind it." He braces himself. "May I have another one, please?"

"Of course." Martin's voice is like honey. He builds a rhythm, light and quick, scattering the hits so no one point grows too sore. 

"Thank you," Jon says, when the flurry of hits winds down. "Er - is that okay to say?"

"Yeah, 'course. You don't have to! But, ah, if you want, I enjoy hearing you respond." 

Jon turns around. "I'd like to kiss your hands, if you're amenable to that."

Martin blinks at him. "Why wouldn't I be?" He holds up his hand, still grasping the flogger. 

Jon kisses the knuckles and the base of Martin's thumb, and rubs his cheek against Martin's wrist, eyes briefly sliding shut. 

Martin lets out a small noise. When Jon looks, he seems dazed, but clears his throat. "Perhaps some spanking now?"

They rearrange themselves on the sofa with Jon, stripped down to his pants, sprawled over Martin's lap. Martin's big hand runs over his back and Jon shivers in anticipation. 

"I'll start bare-handed and then switch to the paddle, alright?" 

Jon grunts agreement. 

He starts out light enough that Jon almost complains, but ramps up the intensity pretty quick. His hand lands heavy and perfect on Jon's arse, one hit after another, deep and satisfying. 

The paddle, as Martin switches to it, is almost too much. He notices at once, asking Jon how he's doing.

"It's always like this at first," Jon says between gasps. "Keep going, please keep going. It's so good."

It is. The more Martin gives him, the more Jon wants, longing for bruises and welts, for aches that'll last him days. When Martin finally stops, Jon has to restrain himself from whining. 

"Thank you," he says instead, low and earnest. "You made me feel so good."

"My absolute pleasure," Martin says fervently. "What do you need now?" 

"Bed," Jon decides. "And cuddles. I should get some water, too."

"Go to bed, I'll take care of the water." 

Jon tries to protest, but Martin shoos him off firmly. He meets Jon in the bedroom holding a water bottle with a straw in it. "Where did you get that?" Jon asks after a few sips.

"Brought it with me. It's part of my play kit."

"That thing must weigh a ton," Jon says, impressed. "Anyway, I believe I requested cuddles?"

"So you did," Martin says, and slides into bed next to Jon. 

Martin's hugs are just as good as Jon remembered. He curls up close with a happy sigh. Before succumbing to post session euphoria, though, he asks, "Do you need anything?" 

"I'm fine." Martin's hand lies on Jon's nape, pressing him close. "Rest, now."

That's all the encouragement Jon needs to sink into lethargic bliss.

* * *

“Jon?”

Within his arms, Jon makes a plaintive noise and burrows closer. Martin tightens his grasp without thinking, then regretfully loosens it. “I’ll need to leave soon. Do you want tea or something before I go?”

Jon mutters something unintelligible, but follows it up with a huge yawn and, “Right, right. Listen, thank you so much, I had a fantastic time.”

Martin smiles so wide it’ll hurt in a minute. “It’s mutual. Can I kiss you on the forehead?” Jon presents his face, and Martin plants a kiss on his warm skin. “Again, do you need anything before I go?”

Jon shakes his head. “You?” At Martin’s negative, he shuffles out of bed and into a bathrobe. Martin follows him to the front door. “One thing before you go, though,” Jon says.

“Yes?” Despite himself, Martin’s heartbeat quickens. Is there something he did wrong, a problem--?

“Hug?” Jon asks.

Martin gives a shaky laugh and opens his arms. God, it feels good to hold Jon. 

They part without any further ado, but the stupid anxiety has sunk its claws into Martin. By the time he gets home, he’s hunched into himself, trying to dredge himself out of misery.

It’s so _stupid_. Jon was so sweet, responsive and trusting and caring, squirming so nicely when Martin hit him. Cuddling him in bed had felt so right. What does Martin have to feel upset about? 

Reason does nothing. It rarely does, when he’s like this. There is no explanation, nothing but the pervasive feeling of wrongness. That he’d done something wrong, that he _is_ something wrong. 

He should call Melissa. He really should. He picks up his phone and rings a number. It’s not Melissa’s.

“Golden Bough care home,” a receptionist answers cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

Martin swallows. He should end the conversation. This will go nowhere good. “Can I speak to Margaret Blackwood, please?”

There is a little sigh on the other end. “It’s Martin, isn’t it?”

Martin closes his eyes. “She’s still not taking my calls?”

“Listen, I’m sorry--”

“No, no, it’s not your fault. I,” he can’t call again later, his mum asked him to just stop calling. He probably will anyway. “I’ll go. Thank you, have a nice day.”

God _damn_ it. A whole three weeks he’s held off, and now he tries crawling to her again. Why does he _do_ this?

He’s interrupted in his misery by a warm weight settling in his lap and purring.

He’s crying, now, but if it upsets Goose she shows no sign of it. “You,” he says brokenly, “are such a good kitty.”

* * *

Melissa listens with sympathetical horror as Martin recounts calling his mother. Attempting to call her. “And I know I should have called you, no need to say you told me so…”

“I’m not going to do that,” Melissa says. “I’m just sorry you didn’t feel like you could call me. You deserve to have support when you’re in a bad place. If there’s anything I can do to make calling me easier, please tell me.”

“I’ll think about it when my brain is screwed on straight.” Martin blows his nose. “Anyway, I wasn’t totally unsupported. I mean, there was Goose. She’s a cat.”

“You adopted a cat?” Melissa asks with interest.

Martin shifts in his seat. “Ah. Kind of.”

“That phrase,” Melissa says, “does not bode well.”

Martin’s halfway through recanting his first encounter with Goose when Melissa interrupts with, “You’re telling me you stole a cat.”

“Well. Yes. Yes, I did.” Martin lifts his chin. “I’m not sorry and I’m not giving her back. Peter doesn’t deserve her.” 

“I just want to say,” Melissa says faintly, “that there are more orthodox ways to acquire a pet.”

“She’s a very affectionate cat,” Martin says stubbornly. “She deserves better than Peter.”

Melissa sighs. “I trust your judgement,” she says. “I agree that a pet seems like a good idea - I was going to suggest that myself, actually, though I would have pegged you for a dog person.”

“Dogs are very good,” Martin allows, “but I couldn’t just leave her there.” 

Melissa’s mouth tightens minutely. “There are more options in the world,” she says, “than you taking personal care of things, and those things not getting taken care of.”

“Could have fooled me,” Martin mutters, but on Melissa’s inquiry, he shakes his head. “We’re nearly out of time, aren’t we?”

“That’s my job to notice, not yours.” Melissa cracks a small smile. “You’re right, though. Next week, then?”

“Next week.” Martin gets up. He wants to get to the pet shop before it closes, anyway. He still doesn’t know whether Goose prefers catnip mice or bell toys, and no time like the present to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- brief vomit mention  
> \- impact play, including partial nudity  
> \- dom drop, unnamed as such  
> \- self-destructive behavior  
> \- fandom-typical martin's mum  
> \- background tim/sasha  
> \- fic-typical anxiety


	3. Chapter 3

Martin wakes up at 5AM to his phone ringing. He answers it with a groaned curse, but he does answer.

It’s Michael. “Hey, could you pick up my shift today?” He sounds like absolute shit.

Of course, Martin also feels like absolute shit, but he’s used to it. He’ll be better for a cup of tea, anyway. “I guess,” he mumbles.

“Thank you. You are a literal lifesaver,” Michael says, and hangs up without further ado.

When he gets out of bed, it turns out that he’s out of everything but oolong. Why does he even buy oolong? The bitter taste makes him wince, but it’s better than nothing.

The day goes in a similar vein. Small things, but each one grates. He finds out there’s a grease stain on his shirt on the tube, much too late to go back and change. He drops his phone in the mud and cracks the screen. At work, he winds up working a double shift since he was scheduled for one anyway. An irate customer yells at him for five solid minutes.

By the time Martin gets home, all he can think of is a hot shower, a cup of tea (he got some rooibos on the way home, the kind he likes with cinnamon and vanilla), and curling up with Goose. Just before he gets in the shower, though, his phone chimes. It’s Jon, asking Martin if he’s interested in coming over.

 _that’s the best idea I heard all day_ , Martin types, deletes it for being too desperate, and sends, _sure thing!! :) gimme an hour?_ instead. He goes through his shower extra fast.

* * *

This was a terrible idea.

Martin’s stood behind Jon, who is shirtless and braced against the wall. Martin ought to be picking up the pace, hitting harder and faster, but instead he’s flagging. He’s just so bloody tired.

Jon looks back behind his shoulder, eyes smiling. “May I have more?”

Right. Right. Martin needs to rally up. Jon didn’t invite him over to be a pitiful sad sack. He waits for Jon to turn back before continuing to hit him harder. It seems to take an inordinate effort to keep his hands from shaking.

He takes too long before the next hit, and Jon wiggles his arse, impatient. Martin gulps a breath and raises his arm.

Tries to raise his arm. It feels like it’s glued to his side.

Jon turns around again, this time frowning. “Martin? What--?” His eyes widen. “Why are you crying?”

Oh. Right. Those are tears flowing down his cheeks. “Sorry,” Martin says numbly.

Jon herds him to the sofa. “Sit down,” he says. “I’ll make tea. What do you need?”

Feebly, Martin tries to get up. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I should, I should go.” He collapses back into the seat, breath hitching. “I’m so sorry.”

Jon halts, tilting his head as he looks at Martin quizzically. Then he goes to the sofa and climbs into Martin’s lap, holding on to him.

“Oh,” Martin says weakly, as his arms wrap around Jon.

“I’ll get up if you want to go,” Jon says, muffled in his shoulder. “Or if you don’t want me here. But I’m not letting you go because of _shoulds_. Shoulds are _stupid_.”

It surprises a laugh out of Martin, which turns into sobs. Jon sits patiently in his lap, small and warm, heart beating steadily. “Stay,” Martin finally whispers, when he has the breath to speak. “I don’t-- please stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon says softly. Then he _hmm_ s and adds, “Unless you want to relocate to bed. More cuddle space there.”

Martin has to admit that sounds good, but, “If I lie down I don’t know I’ll be able to get up again. It’s been one hell of a day.”

Jon shrugs. “So stay over. If you want, next time you can bring some spare clothes to keep here. I have plenty of free space.”

With regret, Martin says, “I don’t want to leave my cat alone for too long, but I’d absolutely take you up on it otherwise.”

“I can set up an alarm, then,” Jon suggests. “Lie down for an hour, then I’ll make you tea.”

That sounds entirely too good to be true, but he’d promised Melissa he’d try to let others care for him, and so he follows Jon into bed. Cuddling him under the covers is just as good as it was last time, even with the aftertaste of embarrassment in Martin’s mouth.

“So, you have a cat?” Jon asks after a few minutes lying tangled together.

“Yeah. Her name’s Goose. Do you want to see a picture?” Martin feels a bit foolish for asking. He doesn’t want to be one of those people who force pictures of their pets on others.

“I need you to know something about me.” Jon draws back a little, face solemn. Before Martin can panic, though, Jon follows that with, “I always want to see pictures of cats. Always. If I ever refuse a cat picture, assume I’ve been replaced with an impostor.”

Martin bursts into giggles. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

* * *

As soon as Martin opens the door to his flat, Goose comes winding around his ankles. She meows a few times, sharp anxious sounds that break Martin's heart. "I'm here, I'm here," he tells her, sitting on the sofa. She promptly pounces into his lap, and Martin has brief deja vu for his encounter with Jon just minutes ago.

"There you go," he whispers, scritching her behind the ear. "Jon says hi, by the way, and that he'd like to meet you. How do you feel about that?"

As if in answer, Goose purrs. Martin keeps scritching her, laughing softly to himself.

His phone chimes. Martin takes it out. It's just an email from some list he'd signed on for who knows when, but it reminds him. He bites his lip and opens Melissa's contact. 

She answers on the second ring. "Martin? How are you?"

"Well enough," Martin says automatically. To his surprise, he means it. "Wasn't so good a bit back, though." He tells her the entire story, capping it with, "So I'm pretty sure I made a complete fool out of myself and he'll never want to see me again, but at least I got some hugs first."

"Oh, Martin," Melissa says softly. "I don't think that's how he feels at all. Nobody was forcing him to take care of you, were they?"

"I was, kind of," Martin argues. "I started crying on the poor man, what was he meant to do?"

"People can say no," Melissa says.

"Can they? Can they, really?" Martin doesn't give her time to answer. "I don't know. I don't understand what was wrong with me. Why did I have to, to be like that?"

"Like what? Exhausted?" Melissa sighs. "Martin, you get to say no, too. You get to tell Jon if you're too tired to see him, or do whatever it is he wants you to do to him."

"Oh I do, do I?" Martin startles at the dig of claws into his thighs, and lowers his voice a little. "How lovely for me. I get to sit at home, all alone, until I magically become good enough for company." 

"That's not what I said." Melissa sounds like she's getting a headache. That makes two of them. "You were tired. You get to rest when you're tired. That's all."

"But I'm always tired." Martin hates the whine in his voice. "It always feels like I'm digging into myself to try and find something, anything I can offer. That's the only way I can get anything back."

For a moment, Melissa is quiet. "I don't think that's a discussion we should have right now. Is there anything else you need?"

It's a clear dismissal. "I'll be fine." Martin is very good at sounding convincing, even to himself. 

He hangs up, but before he can tuck the phone back in his pocket, it rings. Jon's name appears on the cracked screen. Martin blinks and answers.

"Hello," Jon says. "Just checking you made it safely home." 

"Oh! Yes, of course. I'm fine."

"Good," Jon says. He pauses. "Is that Goose I hear purring?"

Martin laughs and places his phone closer to Goose. He hears Jon's tinny voice severely telling Goose what a good cat she is. He can't help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- very tired character breaking down after pushing past his own boundaries  
> \- cuddles without getting permission first, but are wanted


	4. Chapter 4

"I need advice," Jon says as he barrels into Tim's house. He's on the sofa with Sasha in his lap, both of them looking at him. "Hello, Sasha. Tim, you're the only person I can asks about relationships."

"Um," Tim says. His mouth is unusually red, and understanding slams into Jon like a truck. Sasha is _in his lap_. They're _dating_.

Jon takes two steps back, holding his hands in front of him. "Sorry, sorry. I should have called." He always does this, gets lost in his own thoughts and questions and forgets basic manners.

Sasha slides from Tim's lap to the sofa cushion next to him. "Don't leave on my account." Jon freezes. Is she being sarcastic? He can't always tell. But Sasha smiles, and leans over Tim's lap to pat the cushion on his other side. "Here, sit down. What's going on? Or should I go in another room?"

"It really is okay," Tim says. "I'm the one who gave you a key, didn't I?"

Not for the first time, Jon is flooded by warmth. He has a friend, a real and good friend. He has no idea how that happened, but he is beyond grateful that it did. "You did." He sits down. "You don't need to leave," he tells Sasha. He's not as close to her as he is to Tim, but they're friends. "More eyes on the problem, I suppose."

"Shoot," Sasha says.

For Sasha's sake, Jon adds the background: "So there's this guy I met at a kink party."

"I was there," Tim says with glee. "I could tell you all about it."

Jon gives him a forbidding glare. "No, you cannot." He grimaces. "Suffice to say I was a complete idiot, but somehow this dom took a liking to me anyway. Martin. I like him, too - not in a dating way," he adds, before Tim decides to be clever again, "but we've met and scened as friends a couple of times since."

To Jon's surprise, Tim is tensing up. "What did he do?"

"He started crying a little after we began the session," Jon says. Tim sighs and relaxes, though he keeps frowning. "I think he was just exhausted. Nearly fell asleep on me when we cuddled afterwards. But I didn't notice." He bites his lower lip. "I should have noticed." 

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Should?"

Jon narrows his eyes. "I feel in the situation, a little should-ing is warranted!"

"What about verbal check-ins, if you can't tell?" Sasha asks. 

That's the complicated part. "What if he doesn't tell me? I literally had to sit on him to keep him from leaving without aftercare."

Tim and Sasha exchange a look. Slowly, Tim says, "If you don't want to play with someone with incompatible communications style, you don't have to."

"But I do!" Jon throws his hands up. "I just don't want to hurt him by not paying enough attention."

"There's a limit to how much responsibility you can be expected to take," Sasha says. "You're not a mind reader. He did say it was fine."

"Right, but it obviously wasn't!"

Sasha shrugs. "Then it's not a matter of paying attention, is it? If he lies to you, he lies to you. Not a lot you can do about that, except not play with him."

"That's a little black-and-white," Tim protests. 

Jon, to his surprise, is inclined to agree. Maybe it's just that he's loathe to give up Martin's company so easily. "I'll talk to him," he says. "Explain about having a hard time reading body language. Maybe he'll take pity."

Tim's expression is complicated, but he says, "It's worth a shot, I suppose."

There is a short silence. Then Jon crosses his arms. "So. The two of you are dating now?"

"Until she comes back to her senses, yes," Tim murmurs. Sasha swats him. Jon leans back and lets them tell him how they got to start dating. 

* * *

Martin's a bit wary, walking into Melissa's office. She smiles and says hi, just like she always does, motioning him to take a seat.

After the initial niceties, she says, "I've had some thoughts about our last talk."

Martin crosses his arms before he can think better of it. Fine, he's feeling defensive. "Yeah, I still don't think moping at home alone is going to do me any good."

"And that's _still_ not what I said," Melissa counters. 

"It is!" The words explode out of Martin, pushed along by a week's worth of frustration. "That's exactly what it amounts to!"

Melissa takes a moment to think. "So you're saying any social interaction feels like you're digging out bits of yourself? Did I get that right?"

She obviously cares, and that calms Martin down enough to consider what he's saying. "Not interaction in and of itself," he says, halting. "It's not - if I go to the pub with people from work, it doesn't feel like that. But I also don't really get much back, when I do that. So maybe any social interaction I get something out of."

"Can you try to think of an interaction that will be fulfilling, but not feel that way to you?"

Martin tries to answer, but the lump in his throat keeps him silent. He wipes his eyes angrily. Melissa says nothing, only patiently waiting for him. When finally he manages to force some words out, he says, "Nobody would want to do that with me."

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Melissa coaxes. "No harm just talking about it."

Martin fixes her with a glare. "Therapy _is_ talking about stuff, and that's powerful enough to help, or at least it's supposed to be. Of course it can hurt as well."

Melissa tilts her head, acknowledging. "Alright. What are you afraid will happen?"

"I'll want it." Martin closes his eyes. His voice cracks as he continues. "If I talk about it, it becomes real enough that not having it will hurt." 

"Wanting isn't bad." The sympathy in Melissa's voice makes Martin want to throw something. "If you don't let yourself want things, how can you figure out how to be happy?"

"Maybe I can't," he snaps.

She folds her arms. "That's quitter talk. You can do better than that, Martin."

She's right. He hates it, but she's right. He sighs and forces himself to think. 

It's like opening a door with rusty hinges, resistance all the way. His mind does _not_ want him to follow through. He can only get out little pieces in snatches. "I don't know where to start."

"I want..." Melissa prompts.

"I want..." Jon. The word comes to mind immediately. Martin frowns; he needs more specificity. "Lying in bed with Jon, after. That was good. I'd like that, sometimes when I'm not exhausted out of my mind."

Melissa waits for a few seconds before saying, "So your big fantasy which nobody would ever agree to make happen.... is something you literally did the last time you saw Jon."

Martin huddles in on himself. "That was just out of pity," he mutters. 

Melissa sighs. "Or maybe, just maybe, the guy who introduced himself to you by demanding to sit in your lap wants to cuddle." 

"You can't know that!" Martin hisses. He feels ridiculous, simultaneously certain Melissa can't possibly be correct and suspecting she might have a point. "He might... I don't know. He was drunk."

"Martin." The gentleness in her voice is unbearable. "At least try? Just ask him. The guy let you beat him, you don't think he wants to hug you?"

Martin glares at her. "Those are two totally different things." He deflates with a sigh. "But he might say yes. I dunno. What if he doesn't?"

"Then you asked, and he said no, and it won't be the end of the world."

That seems highly doubtful to Martin, but he supposes at least technically she's correct. 

* * *

In a world of baffling, anxiety-making humans, at least there's Goose.

Currently, she has her eyes fixed on the laser pointer's red dot, wiggling her behind as she prepares to pounce, pupils blown wide. Then, just as she jumps, Martin points somewhere else. Goose bats at the floor a few times before realizing her prey is no longer there; she spots the new dot, and repeats pouncing procedure.

It's too precious. Martin manages to make a video, holding the pointer in his left hand and his phone in his right, flushing with success as he captures her betrayed look to find the dot has disappeared once more; and then, when she jumps into his lap, nosing at his hands. Martin pets her with one hand and watches the video: it came out really well, Goose's purring loud enough to be caught by the phone. He opens his Facebook app.

He looks at his last post, and the one before it. Just sharing some pictures of field mice in a flower, and a screenshot of a poem he'd liked. Both are barren of any interaction.

Facebook is pointless, anyway. He closes it, something rising in his throat. He contemplates sending it to Melissa, but that's just pathetic, isn't it? 

Before he has another thought, his phone rings. Startled, Martin answers. "Hello?"

"It's Jon," Jon says. There is a tiny pause, just awkward enough to be noticed, before he says, "How are you doing?"

"Do you want a cat video?" Martin blurts.

This time, there is no pause. "Of course I want a cat video. Send it over immediately," Jon says. "Right now. I'll wait."

So Martin sends the video, waiting with a hammering heart as it uploads. What if it's no good? Jon is surely a cat video connoisseur. He will just dismiss this video as an amateurish, low quality effort. 

The video finishes sending. Almost immediately, Martin hears his own voice, tinny over the speakers, talking to Goose. He flushes with embarrassment. Oh, God, he hadn't realized: he'd been cooing at her, calling her his beautiful little darling. Then the purring.

"That," Jon says gravely, "was a fantastic video. Top marks. I must only deduct points because I have yet to meet Goose in person."

Martin huffs out laughter. His eyes prickle; he has no idea why. "You should come over," he says, impulsively.

Another tiny pause. "I was going to suggest you come to mine, actually. If you're up for that?"

Martin lets out a breath. "Sure!" He has to turn up the positivity in his voice, a bit, and he doesn't know why that is happening either. Why wouldn't he be enthused about meeting Jon? This is ridiculous. "Sure."

"There are some matters I'd like to discuss. Nothing bad," Jon adds hurriedly. "Only matters of communication protocols."

A wave of fondness crashes over Martin. "Of course," he tells Jon. "Can't let those protocols go undiscussed, eh?"

"We really can't," Jon says, with utmost seriousness. Martin wants to hug him.

Maybe soon he'll be able to. 

* * *

Jon looks a little cagey when he opens the door to let Martin in. He barely even darts a glance at Martin's toy bag. 

The living room is airy and bright, and for once it's easy to ask, "So what's the matter?"

Jon takes a breath. "I am... not very good at nonverbal communication."

Martin nods, waiting to see where he's going with that, but Jon just stares at him like that's supposed to be a complete statement. "Alright, so what do you need me to do?"

"Seriously?" Jon huffs. "I need you to tell me when you don't want to do something. Last time I could only tell because, um, the situation became drastic. I don't want to go that far." His expression is intense, eyes boring into Martin's skull. "It's not okay for me to let a session get so bad for you, but unless you let me know, _I can't tell_." He sounds distressed.

"Oh, no, it wasn't your fault!" The words slip out of Martin's mouth automatically, unbidden. "Obviously it wasn't. How could you know?"

Jon looks hopeful. "So you'll tell me?"

Martin opens his mouth to say he will. What comes out instead is, "Um." Jon's face droops. "I mean, I should! I definitely should." He gives a weak, unconvincing laugh. "Honestly, it's fine, just don't worry about it."

Jon's face contorts. "It Is _not_ fine. At all." When he looks at Martin again, he almost looks wounded. "You said we could be friends. That's not how I treat my friends."

Oof: that felt like a gut punch. Martin breathes through it, and says, "I want to be friends." And since he really does, he forces himself to say, "I'm not very good at saying things like that. I don't always notice, even."

"That's fair enough," Jon says. He's frowning still, but now it's a more thoughtful sort of expression. "What if I asked you? I could check in while we play." 

"That should work," Martin says slowly. "I might still miss, on occasion."

Jon gives it thought for a minute. "It's not your fault if you do. If that's a risk you can live with, I suppose I could also try, but I want to help take care of you, after." Then he adds, "Unless you don't want me to. But it's my preference."

"Right! Right." Martin nods. He feels scraped empty inside, but it's not a bad feeling. Feels like letting down a burden he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. 

They're quiet for a moment, and then Martin nods at his toy bag. "Do you want...?"

Jon's eyes are on his face. "Are you up for scening?" he asks in a level voice.

A reflexive, ready agreement sticks in Martin's throat. After a second of trying to dislodge it, Martin gives in. "'Fraid not." And that should be it. That should be Jon's cue to wish him a good night and see him out the door. But Martin promised Melissa, so he follows that up with, "But."

"But?"

Martin closes his eyes. That way he won't have to see Jon's face when he tells Martin no, won't have to see if there's disgust there. "I'd like to cuddle, if you were amenable." There: he said it. Now he can lord Jon's refusal over Melissa when she next tries to convince him to do something.

Except what Jon says in reply is, "Of course." He follows it up with a huff of laughter. "Frankly, this conversation felt like a scene in and of itself. We should both get some aftercare."

"Huh." Aftercare for Martin. The thought sits oddly in his mind. 

Belatedly, he opens his eyes again, to see Jon aiming yet another frown at him. Jon has a whole wardrobe of frowns, and they're each unfairly attractive. "You know doms need aftercare too, right?"

Martin shrugs uncomfortably. " _Need_ is kind of a major word, isn't it? I can manage." True, he ends up dropping more often than not, but play's worth it. Usually. Sometimes. 

The frown intensifies. "Well, you shouldn't have to, and I don't want you to." Jon gives a decisive nod. "Tea before cuddles, or after?"

"After." Tea can wait. 

Jon drags him to bed again. As soon as both of them are under the blankets, Jon insinuates himself into Martin's space. He fits so nicely against Martin; his hair smells a bit like cigarette smoke, but Martin doesn't mind. "Can I kiss the top of your head?" he whispers.

"Yes. Can I nuzzle your chest?"

Martin recoils, unthinking. His chest is - best not thought of. It's another one of the things Melissa wants him to unpack, but he's pretty sure in this instance she just has some transphobia to unlearn. 

"Alright, not that," Jon says equanimously. "Your hands, then?"

That seems a bit silly to Martin, but he agrees, raising his hands. Jon rubs his face into them, looking so much like Goose scent-marking that it shocks a laughter out of Martin. 

"What?"

"You're cute," Martin mumbles. 

Jon burrows closer. "You're warm." He sounds content, the tone of his voice like a balm over Martin's cracked heart. "And soft," Jon adds. "I like you."

It makes Martin's breath catch again. "I like you, too," he says, inanely.

"Good." Jon worms his way up the bed, until he's looking Martin in the eye. Very seriously, he asks, "May I boop your nose?" At Martin's agreement, Jon touches two fingers to the tip of Martin's nose, and Martin bursts out laughing. It's that or cry, and maddeningly, he still doesn't understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls note chapter count has changed, although it's still mostly a guesstimate. 
> 
> In this chapter:  
> \- blink and you miss it dysphoria  
> \- mention of therapist transphobia
> 
> I am currently going through A Time, so I very much appreciate all of y'all's patience with me. Thank you for reading this.


	5. Chapter 5

"So that went pretty well," Jon tells Tim and Sasha over the remains of brunch. The waiter takes away their plates, and Sasha takes out her crochet. Jon squints at it. "Oh, hey. Is that a demisexual pride flag?"

"It is," Sasha confirms, holding up the little yarn circle. "I've been making pride flag pins for friends. The demi one was a little bit of a challenge because it wasn't enough to just do rows of different colors, so I needed a pattern. Then I found someone who posted code for plotting circle patterns in R - that's a programming language, a bit like Matlab if you know that?" When both Tim and Jon shake their heads, she says, "It's mostly for dealing with more math-heavy things. So apparently what you usually get when you start this pattern is a hexagon, so if you want it to be more circular...."

By the time they're done, Jon has fiber crafts on his mind. He and Martin are supposed to go to the museum, and as soon as they meet Jon's eyes gravitate to Martin's jumper.   
Well, okay, first they hug. But as soon as they move apart. 

Martin notices. "Do you like it?" He fiddles with the hem of the jumper as they walk towards the museum. 

"It's soft," Jon says, which is to say, he very much does. "The color suits you. Did you know some of the earliest origins of computer programs came from automatic looms?" Martin makes a polite inquiring noise, and Jon says, "You see, in the early 19th century you had the Jacquard looms, which used punch cards to--"

Shit. Shit. He's doing it again.

It's hard to stop himself talking, hard enough that he stands still, unable to move any other parts. Fuck. He hates when he gets like this, because stopping _hurts_ , makes his brain feel like it's overheating. Like he's doing something unnatural. 

Martin stops as soon as Jon does, eyeing him with worry. "Jon? What's wrong?"

"You don't want to hear all that," Jon says, with some difficulty.

"What? Why? That was very interesting! I'd love to hear the rest of it." 

Jon eyes Martin with suspicion, but he seems honest. 

"It used punch cards to...?" Martin prompts, and Jon is lost in the explanation again, his mind straightening out like an untangled thread.

* * *

Waiting for Martin to get them museum tickets, some part of Jon's thoughts are spinning in circles. Thinking about how lucky he is that he and Martin aren't dating. 

When it was Georgie and him, he could see her wince every time they were in public and he started going on like that. It was worst in social settings, when he'd be cutting off her friends and monopolizing the conversation. Georgie tried to explain to him so many times why that was a problem, and still Jon just could not stop. How much worse would that be with Martin, who'd proved to have difficulties telling Jon when the situation wasn't right for him? How much would Martin take before he'd snap at Jon - or worse, break down in tears? Again? 

"There we go," Martin says cheerfully. His face falls when he sees Jon's expression, though. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Jon says, forcing a smile. By Martin's horrified response, it's not a very good one. Jon sighs. "Sorry. It really isn't anything you should worry about, I just get lost in my head sometimes. Let's go inside." He offers Martin his arm, gratified when Martin takes it.

One of the first exhibitions they pass by has some Rubens paintings. Martin lingers next to _Bacchus_. Jon looks up with him; the painting doesn't catch him. Visual art rarely does. "Do you like it?" Jon asks.

Martin shrugs and cracks a weak smile. "I don't know. Maybe I should have been born in," he looks at the plaque, "the 17th century. Or maybe not, I can't actually tell if he's meant to be attractive or grotesque."

Jon blinks up at Martin. The painting doesn't make him feel any particular way. "I'm not sure what you're seeing there."

Martin flushes. "Oh, you know, just." He gestures down at his body. "Nevermind, let's keep going."

They keep walking, and Jon's mind is churning. Does Martin not like his own body? Why wouldn't he? Martin's body, as far as Jon's concerned, is great: solid and warm, Martin's hands excellent on a flogger or a paddle, his arms wonderful for cuddling into, his skin soft and fascinatingly patterned with freckles. Absolutely nothing to take exception to. But he knows people sometimes have unreasonable expectations of bodies, others' or their own, and that's just how it is. 

In the back of his thoughts, an idea starts percolating. Jon puts it in the back of his mind, and does his best to focus on the exhibit.

* * *

They go back to Jon’s after the museum. As soon as they’ve taken their shoes off, Jon’s herding Martin towards the sofa with determination.

“I haven’t got any of my equipment,” Martin protests, laughing. “I suppose I could use my hands, though?”

Jon pushes him to sit down, then drops to his knees in front of him. “Hush,” he says. “That’s not what this is about.”

“What is it about, then?” Martin shifts and tries not to fidget.

“I want to touch you,” Jon says simply. “I won’t touch your chest, genitals or arse. Anywhere else you’d like me to stay away from? Is kissing also an acceptable form of touch?”

“Yes,” Martin says faintly. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “I mean, yes to kissing. Besides the areas you mentioned…” he looks down at his own body. “Go ahead.”

Jon has a sweet little crease in the middle of his forehead. “You don’t sound certain.”

Martin looks aside. “I mean, if you want to touch my stomach, I won’t stop you, but why would you want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to?”

The honest bewilderment in Jon’s voice pulls Martin’s attention back to him. “You don’t have to act like….”

“Like what?” Jon demands. “Like I think your body is lovely? I do. Why wouldn’t I act that way?”

Martin feels his face heating up, painful. “You don’t have to,” he repeats, weakly. “If you just want me to hit you and cuddle you, that’s fine. That’s plenty. I don’t need more.”

“Alright, but what if I _want_ to touch you?” Jon asks.

The concept simply won’t settle in Martin’s mind. He decides to treat it like a hypothetical. “Then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Do you want me to?” Jon’s eyes are intent on him, searching. “Because if you don’t, that would in fact be a very good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Of course I do,” Martin says, exasperated. “Who wouldn’t want you to touch them?” He wishes he could snatch the words back as soon as he’d said them. 

“Plenty of people,” Jon says with a shrug. “Alright. I’m starting with your hands.”

Like the last time they cuddle, Jon nuzzles and rubs his cheeks against Martin’s hands. Now Martin has a better view of his face: eyes closed, the angles of the mouth turned upward in contentment. Jon sniffs his hands, and appears to like what he smells. 

_You are one weird person,_ Martin thinks, deeply affectionate. 

"These are good hands," Jon says softly, and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Martin blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the prickle of tears in the corner of his eyes. _What the fuck?_ he admonishes himself. 

Jon, heedless of Martin's response, moves on to kissing his wrists. "Good wrists too," he says between kisses. "Broad. Solid. Could I bite you here at some point?" Jon's finger traces a circle over the back of one wrist. 

"Sure," Martin says weakly.

"We can discuss that later." Jon climbs up into his lap, sitting with his back to Martin's chest, drawing Martin's arms around him. He rubs his cheek against the thickness of Martin's upper arm, slow and luxuriating. "You're strong, but you're soft, too. I like that. I like that a lot."

_Oh, God._ Martin bites his lip. 

Jon shuffles, cuddling close, going limp in Martin's grasp. That's better. Martin can deal with that.

"You make me feel so safe," Jon murmurs.

Okay, if this continues, Martin is definitely going to cry. He should ask Jon to stop. He doesn't want to. But if he doesn't, if he starts crying _again_ , what would Jon think? 

He did promise. He clears his throat. "Um. Jon? I'm -- fuck, this is embarrassing."

Jon turns around, frowning at him. "What's going on?"

"I'm probably going to start crying if you keep this up." Martin's voice wobbles, which he hates. "I don't want you to stop. It's good. It's just a lot, you know? But if that would bother you then you should probably stop."

"I do know," Jon says gravely. "Thank you for telling me. I believe I will continue." A flicker of anxiety enters his gaze. "But please do tell me if it tips over into being too much."

"I will." Martin swallows. "I will."

He manages to keep from crying while Jon is inspecting his neck, making approving noises, but he loses it completely when Jon cups his face in both hands. 

Jon's eyes are closed. He doesn't really like eye contact, Martin's noticed. He's tracing his fingers over the lines of Martin's cheeks, and lays kisses where his fingers have passed. He doesn't seem to pay much attention to the tears he runs across. 

"Your face is kind," Jon murmurs. "Because you're kind, and it shines out of you like a beacon." He doesn't mention how Martin's face is distorting as he cries, but he does ask if Martin wants a tissue, or if he needs a break.

"I'm good," Martin says, cracked open. "Keep going."

When Jon transfers his attention to Martin’s belly, Martin teeters on the cusp of stopping him. How could Jon want to touch him there? How could anyone? 

How could Martin bear it?

But Jon is smoothing his hands over Martin’s belly, softly pushing into it like a cat kneading. Martin has never been touched this way in his life. Jon appears to enjoy his belly just as much as he liked Martin’s hands, and his face; just the same. Jon’s hands feel so good on Martin’s skin, like rain on parched soil. 

For a deranged, fleeting moment, Martin thinks about letting Jon touch his chest. How this respectful, affectionate, _intimate_ touch would feel there. He banishes the thought as soon as it’s formed. He can’t deal with that right now. 

Jon finishes with his stomach and moves on to his thighs. “I love that they hold you up,” Jon murmurs. “I love that you’re strong and you’re soft.”

“You’ve said that already,” Martin says, shaky.

Jon shrugs, unrepentant. “It bears repeating.”

By the time he reaches Martin’s feet, Jon isn’t saying anything, but his touches speak for him. Finally, he lays his head on Martin’s knee, looking up at him. For a moment, they’re silent; the entire world feels hushed.

“You’re going to need aftercare,” Jon says. It is very much not a question.

Martin thinks, just for a moment, of rebuffing him. But his face is a mess of tears, and there is a limit to how much he can lie to himself. 

Jon fetches a damp towel. “Do you want to wash your own face, or should I?”

“Probably me,” Martin says with some regret. “I don’t think I can take much more attention, you know?” 

So he cleans his face, and follows Jon to his bed, and holds Jon until he stops feeling like he’ll fall apart if he moves too quickly.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” Jon says at the door. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

Martin shakes his head, helpless. He doesn’t know where to start answering that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- nonsexual body worship  
> \- painful praise kink  
> \- crying  
> \- internalized fatphobia  
> \- internalized ableism  
> \- low self esteem all around 
> 
> I have no idea anymore whether the chapter count is accurate. who knows. not me, my brain is sludge.


	6. Chapter 6

There is the sound of a key turning in the lock. “Payback time,” Tim cheerfully says as he walks into Jon’s flat.

Startled, Jon straightens in his chair. “How is this payback? I don’t have anyone in with me.” He casts a surreptitious look about, then shakes his head at himself. It’s not like Martin could be hiding under one of the sofa cushions. 

Tim waves off this concern, then sets himself sprawling on the sofa. “Jon! O cuddlebuddy of mine! Lend me your wise advice! And come hug me already.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jon informs Tim. “And I have work to do.” This does not stop him from leaving his desk to join Tim. It is still the weekend, after all. 

They are entwined, Jon’s head pillowed on Tim’s chest, when Tim says, “So, about that advice.” Jon groans. This is taken as encouragement. “I need to decide on a birthday gift for Sasha.” 

It takes considerable effort not to flinch. “I’m not a very reliable source for this sort of advice.” That’s understating the case rather severely. 

“I trust your judgement,” Tim says, like it’s just that easy.

If Tim wants to crash and burn, that’s his business. “She talked a lot about crafts, when we last met. Maybe something for that?”

“Ah-ha!” Tim cries out. Jon recoils slightly with an accusing look. Tim knows he doesn’t like loud noises. “Sorry, sorry. Come here. I think I know just the thing.” Tim withdraws one hand from around Jon to take out his phone. He messes with it for a few moments, then shows Jon the screen. It’s a post on Sasha’s Facebook, featuring a link to - Jon blinks - a fractal shawl pattern, with the added text, _I COVET_. 

That… might actually work. “Does the pattern say what kind of yarn it needs?” Jon says. “Maybe get her that, I think that’s the expensive part.”

“Way ahead of you,” Tim says, scrolling further down. “There we go, that’s the color-changing stuff she wanted. If I order it now it should arrive with a week to spare for her birthday. Jon, you’re a life-saver.”

“I didn’t really do anything except state the obvious,” Jon says. Tim ignores him in favor of, apparently, browsing yarn. “I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that my taste in presents lacks romance. I wouldn’t take my ideas for someone you’re dating.”

This gets Tim to pause his scrolling. “What makes you say that?”

“My entire dating experience,” Jon says dryly. “Apparently I can’t pick a properly romantic gift to save my life.”

Tim regards him with a frown. “What makes a gift romantic?”

Jon pushes away from Tim just enough to throw up his hands. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have this problem!” He shakes his head. “Something the recipient wants without knowing they want it? I don’t know. It made no sense when Georgie tried to explain it.”

Tim’s frown deepens. “That doesn’t sound like Georgie. I mean, I believe you!” he hastens to add. “It’s just weird. I guess you never really know a person.”

“Show me that yarn again,” Jon commands. Anything to change the subject.

* * *

Even after Tim leaves, the thought stays with Jon, hovering around his brain like a buzzing mosquito. Finally, with a gusty sigh, he scrolls back in his phone until he finds his and Georgie’s messaging history. He half-thinks he must have misremembered, that they must have had that conversation in person, but a search for _presents_ brings it up right away.

Funnily enough, that’s the first message he sees: _I wanted to continue our conversation about presents,_ Georgie had written. _You seemed a bit distraught, would you be okay continuing on text?_

Jon swallows, trying to dispel the sudden lump in his throat. Georgie had always tried so hard to make him feel comfortable. Why couldn’t he have made it work?

_I appreciate the jumper you got me,_ she had written. Jon remembers that jumper: soft, the baby blue cashmere brilliant against Georgie’s dark skin. He’d worried that maybe she’d find it a hassle to clean, but Georgie had a bunch of clothes like that. She’d pointed out the jumper to him herself, sighed over it when they went window-shopping. _I know it wasn’t cheap, and I did want to get it. But that’s the point: I could have bought it for myself. I was going to._

Jon’s reply had reflected the confusion he still feels. _Then what’s wrong? Why don’t you like it?_

He can practically hear Georgie’s frustrated sigh. But the words are more gentle than he’d remembered: _I’m not upset. I do like it. But when you give me a gift, I prefer to get something that I can tell you gave me, you get me?_

He had not. _My name’s on it,_ he’d written. _That’s how you can tell._ God, he’d been a prat, but he can taste that old bewilderment that led him to snapping. 

She had ignored that. _I want a gift from someone I’m dating to have some individuality,_ she’d written. _Not something anyone could have bought me. Something with personal significance._

Jon’s pretty sure his past self had stared at his phone, dearly wanting to yell, _What does that mean?_ since he’d written just that.

There is a five minute gap in the timestamps before Georgie’s next message. _I don’t know how to explain it. Again, I’m not complaining! I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t asked._

Right. He remembers that now. She’d thanked him gracefully enough, but he’d felt something was missing, and had asked her about it in preparation for the next gift giving occasion.

He’s pretty sure they were broken up before that happened.

Jon puts down his phone, rubbing his eyes. Fine. If Tim wants to take Jon’s terrible, terrible advice - that’s up to him.

* * *

Martin intended to be home an hour ago. Instead, he is stuck on the tube, sweaty and miserable. It’s so crowded he can’t take out his phone to text Jon. Of course, of _course_ that the first time Jon comes to visit Martin doesn’t have time to so much as tidy up first. Morosely, he considers the pile of dishes in the sink. 

He should shower, but as soon as he’s walked in and refreshed Goose’s water bowl he collapses onto the sofa. He is dead. Dead. 

Goose jumps into his lap, and Martin spends the next ten minutes petting her in a fugue state, thoughts uselessly cycling around. Jon will come over, and he’ll see what a mess Martin’s place is, what a mess _Martin_ is, if Martin doesn’t immediately get up and put things away. But he’s so tired, and Goose is purring and soft in his lap. But he has to. But--

The doorbell rings. Martin shuts his eyes and prepares himself for mortification. “Door’s open,” he yells, hoarse. As the door swings inside, Goose hops to the floor to investigate the newcomer. 

It turns out that all of Martin’s worries about the state of his flat were irrelevant, because Jon walks in, shuts the door, crouches, and clearly forgets about everything beside Goose.

“You are a very lovely cat,” Jon tells her, scritching behind her ears. “You should be kissed on the top of your little head. I am only stating facts. You are lovely and require kisses.” Goose attempts to climb into his lap, so Jon sits down on the floor to allow her better access. 

Unnoticed, Martin hides his face in his hands. He cannot deal with this. He sits in silent agony as Jon quotes - is that poetry? No, that is Dolly Parton’s _Jolene_ \- at the cat, with appropriately modified lyrics. A stray curl escapes Jon’s loose ponytail. Goose raises a paw to bat at it, and Jon laughs, awkward and beautiful. Martin will not survive this. 

It’s in sheer self defense that Martin clears his throat. Jon and Goose both look at him, startled, with such matching expressions that Martin giggles despite himself. “If you’re done trying to seduce my cat,” Martin says, smiling, “I believe we had plans?”

“Trying?” Jon says, smugly, cat purring audibly in his lap. “I think I succeeded.” He shifts guiltily. “Also, I can’t move now. It’s the law.”

Martin looks at them, everything he loves sitting on the floor, and sighs. “Would you mind if I took a shower, then?” It’s impossible to feel awkward about it with Jon murmuring something in Latin to his cat. “Work was absolutely disgusting today.”

“Go right ahead,” Jon says, staring into Goose’s eyes. “We’ll be here.”

Martin’s half-covered in suds when the realization hits him. 

_Everything he loves._

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

Martin takes his time getting out of the shower, feeling numb, mechanically going through the motions. When he gets out, Jon is still sitting on the floor, and Goose has gone somewhere. 

Jon holds out his hand in a mute request, and Martin helps him up. “So, do you want to scene now?” Jon asks.

The automatic agreement sticks in Martin’s throat. 

Jon notices, and frowns. “Cuddle, maybe?” he offers.

Slowly, Martin shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I thought about something, and I need to figure it out. You haven’t done anything wrong,” he hurries to clarify as Jon tenses up. “Just - got stuck in my head, a little bit.”

Jon nods. “Alright. Thank you for telling me.” He hesitates, but asks, “Hug?”

Martin hugs him. It may well be the last time he gets to, so he wants to appreciate this. Jon fits so perfectly against him, snug in his arms. 

As he locks the door behind Jon, he lets out a long, ragged breath. What the fuck is he supposed to do about this?


	7. Chapter 7

Jon’s not feeling at the top of his game when he makes it to Tim’s flat. 

It’s better, though, once he comes inside. The lights are on, and Tim is cooking dinner in the kitchen. Jon leans against the counter with a sigh.

“What’s up?” Tim asks, with a quick frowning glance at Jon. “Do I need to beat Martin up?”

“No! God, no.” Jon swallows. “It’s nothing.”

Tim continues stirring in a silence that very eloquently points out that Jon usually does not send him messages requesting cuddles quite so urgently over nothing. Tim’s silences can be verbose that way. 

Jon sighs. “He’s evidently going through… something,” he says. “We were supposed to meet at his place. I showed up, offered my respects to his cat, and then he came out of the other room looking like he’d seen a ghost. He does say it’s not my fault.”

“But you can’t believe him, can you?” Tim extends the arm that isn’t stirring. “C’mere.”

Jon, grateful, tucks himself against Tim’s side. Tim is a very good size to cuddle up to, as is Martin. Jon doesn’t like to be shallow, but he does pride himself on curating cuddle friends of particularly comfortable sizes.

That is, if Martin doesn’t decide to call the whole thing off. 

“Hey, want to hear something cool?” Tim asks. At Jon’s nod, he says, “So I told Sasha about the present I’m getting her - oh, she doesn’t like surprises,” he adds when Jon flinches minutely. Jon had also been explicitly instructed on the importance of surprises in romance. “It’s fine to tell her in advance. And she loves it! She thinks it’s amazing that I cared enough to get her something she specifically said she wanted.”

Jon blinks. “That’s… not what I would have expected.” But even as he says it, thoughts rearrange themselves in his mind. Georgie did use I-statements in that conversation. She was always very careful about that. 

Maybe Sasha’s an outlier, the same way she and Jon are about disliking surprises. But there’s another option, hovering right at the edge of Jon’s consciousness. He can’t look at it outright. It’s too big, too nebulous. 

Fuck it. He pushes his face into Tim’s torso, letting out a ragged breath. Later. He’ll think about this later.

* * *

It’s been three days since Jon came to his flat, and that entire time, Martin had considered over and over how he would explain it to his therapist. What exactly he’d say, which parts he’d specifically point out.

What it comes to, in the end, is him slumped in the chair in Melissa’s office, eyes shut, too tired to put anything into words. 

“It’s okay,” Melissa says. “Take your time.”

It makes Martin want to be contrary, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “I'm in love with Jon, and he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Oh, Martin.” Melissa sounds sad and compassionate and not the least bit surprised. “I’m sorry.”

Martin groans. “You can say you told me so.”

“Saying that is not a good way to make people open up to you.” Melissa nudges a box of tissues in Martin’s direction.

He takes one and blows his nose, lobbing the resulting ball into the bin. “Still. I feel like such an idiot.”

Melissa looks at him. “There’s nothing idiotic about loving people.” She pauses. “Even if they’re not right for you, loving isn’t wrong.”

“But I need to redirect it,” Martin says.

Melissa purses her lips. “I think it might be a good idea to consider the people you become attached to, and why.”

Martin raises his eyes to look into hers. “You think I should break off contact with him, don’t you?”

“Do you think you should?” Melissa counters. 

“I don’t know.” He hides his face in his hands. 

“If you stay with him, will it keep hurting?” Melissa says. “If you do decide to cut off contact, it doesn’t have to be forever. Just until the rejection stops stinging.”

Martin is not at all sure that’s different to _forever_ , but he’s probably just being dramatic. “I like him.” The words come out in a whisper. “I like him so much.”

“I know." Melissa's voice is heavy with sympathy. "I know."

Martin stays where he is and lets tears drip down his palms and wrists. Melissa gets up, and a minute later, there is a cup of tea next to him. It's not much of a comfort.

* * *

_I’d like to meet,_ says the message which Martin sends him. _I have some things I need to say._ Jon spends a long time staring at it, as though it might turn into a spider if left unattended. He isn’t great at noticing tone in text - or, for that matter, in real life - but it feels a bit too spare for Martin’s usual style. No emojis, for one thing, and no clarification of _what_ Martin needs to say, no reassurance it’s not bad.

Jon sends back a message suggesting they meet this afternoon. He’s not going to be much use until they talk, he’s pretty sure. 

They meet in a quiet corner of a park. The day, for once, is sunny; Jon tries to take it as a good omen. 

This is not helped by the sight of Martin, whose hands are jammed firmly in his pockets like he’s afraid of what they might do untended. “Jon!” His voice is high but feels oddly devoid of warmth, like someone shoved Martin in an office scanner and Jon is dealing with the resulting bad copy. “Thank you for coming.”

Jon tenses up. Bad, bad, this is going to be bad. “Thank you for inviting me.” His own voice is stiff and flat. 

Martin spends a moment just looking at him, while Jon wants to scream at him to tell him what’s going on already. 

Then Jon summarily regrets thinking that, because Martin opens his mouth to say, “I think we shouldn’t meet up anymore.”

Oh. Jon’s heart stills for a moment, then beats furiously. He knows what’s the correct thing to do. He should respect Martin’s wishes. He shouldn’t press for anything. Martin gets to stop seeing people at any time, for any reason. If Martin wants to explain, he will, and Jon shouldn’t bother him.

Jon nods. “Alright.” His voice comes out sounding weirdly distant, like it’s not him speaking. He turns to leave.

No.

He turns back around. “Please tell me what I did wrong.” His voice isn’t coming out right, jagged and low, but it’s all he can do.

Martin blinks. “What - no! Jon, it’s not your fault.” Martin’s voice wobbles, like he’s about to cry.

No. That’s not what Jon wants, that’s the opposite of what Jon wants. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or - whatever I did. I’m sorry. I, I’ll go.”

“No!” Martin’s hand shoots out at him, then hangs awkwardly in mid-air between them. “God, no, you haven’t done anything wrong. Not a single thing.”

Jon should accept that and go. He should not get in Martin’s face and demand, “Then why don’t you want to see me anymore?” But that’s exactly what he does.

Martin looks at him for a long moment, a heavy look that feels like it’s pressing Jon down into the ground. Like a weighted blanket. “I’m in love with you,” he finally says, and the words are weighty, too. “And you’re not, and that’s not your fault. But it hurts.”

Before Jon can think better of it, the words, “Who said I’m not in love with you?” come pouring out of his throat. 

Martin jerks back as though struck. “Don’t tease.” His voice trembles. “Don’t.”

“I’m not.” Jon is now committed to this course of action. “I don’t know if I can have a romantic relationship without fucking it up,” he says. “But if you want to break it off anyway, shouldn’t we at least try?” He sounds raw. As well he should: he feels like he’s peeling off his skin and letting Martin have a good look at the inside. 

“How?” Martin looks lost. 

“What do you need in order to make it romantic?” Jon hesitates. “Mouth kissing?” He doesn’t like to do it, but he could, for Martin’s sake.

“No.” Martin sounds firmer now, and Jon is seized by panic before Martin says, “Nothing you don’t want. It doesn’t have to be any different than what we’ve been doing, except…” he hesitates. “I need to know you know how I feel, and you like it, and you feel the same. It’s stupid, but--”

“Not stupid. It’s what you need.”

A small smile appears on Martin’s face. “I want a name for what we are. Boyfriends, partners, whatever you like. I want to get you gifts on anniversaries. That sort of thing.”

Jon blinks at Martin, lost. “I can do that,” he whispers. “I want to do that.”

Martin takes a step closer, but seems to lose his nerve. Jon closes the distance between them, grasping Martin’s shirt and standing up on tiptoes so he can rub his cheek against Martin’s.

He freezes as he realizes what he’s doing. “Is this okay to do, if we’re romantic?” he asks. “It’s not too weird?”

“It’s wonderful,” Martin says, shaky. “It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- martin's therapist devaluing his and jon's relationship, in part because of her own ingrained opinions of what relationships should look like  
> \- martin attempts to break up with jon but they end up talking  
> \- jon has many internalized badthings  
> \- jon offers to do intimate activities he doesn't want, and martin immediately turns that down


	8. Chapter 8

It’s not the easiest week at work, but right now Martin feels like he could take on the world. He has a picture of Jon cuddling Goose as his phone’s lock screen, and just knowing that it’s there feels like a talisman, protecting him from anything the world might throw at him. 

With all of that, it’s very odd to sit down in Melissa’s office and have her ask, “How did your talk with Jon go?” with careful, hushed sympathy, like they’re at a funeral.

“Oh! Really well, actually.” Martin blushes, and smiles. “We’re dating now. Turns out he _was_ interested in me - he was just worried he’s not good at romantic relationships. Which, fair enough, can’t say I have the world’s best track record there myself. We decided to give it a go.”

Melissa blinks, her expression becoming unreadable. “And how’s that been, so far?”

Martin’s smile widens. “Really good. I’ve been sending him little _good morning_ and _goodnight_ texts, he sends me pictures of cute animals when he runs across them. Oh, and I send him pictures of Goose with the _goodnight_ text, if I forget he sends me sad cat emojis until I do.” 

For a long moment, Melissa is silent.

Martin’s smile fades. It feels like a tiny hole poked in his euphoria, air slowly hissing out. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just thinking,” Melissa says delicately, “about your past relationships. I wouldn’t want this to be another man who accepts your affection and gives nothing back.”

Martin bristles. “What are you talking about?”

“How does Jon express his feelings towards you?” she counters.

“Like I said.” Martin frowns. “He sends me pictures of cute animals, we cuddle, we scene - actually, we haven’t since we decided to date, ‘cause of logistics. But we want to, and we will when it works out. We go places together.”

“And how is that different from, as you said, being friends with benefits?”

For a long moment, Martin stares at her. “You’re seriously asking that?”

She spreads her hands. “I want to understand. It doesn’t seem like you’re doing anything particularly romantic.”

“Oh, fuck off.” The words come flying out of Martin’s mouth. Melissa’s eyes widen very slightly. “Who died and made you the arbiter of what’s romantic?”

Now she raises her hands in mock surrender. “From your point of view, what makes your interactions now romantic?”

“What’s the difference between taking your boyfriend to a restaurant and going as friends?” Martin snaps. “The difference is that you’re a couple, and you feel about each other a certain way.”

Melissa gives a thoughtful look. “I’d say there’s probably other differences as well.”

Martin interrupts her before she goes any further. “I feel loved,” he says, flatly. “Isn’t that good enough? Isn’t that what you wanted for me?”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and tilts her head. “It is,” she says, and sighs. “But I have concerns for you, and I feel I’d be neglectful not to mention them.”

That’s about all Martin can take. “I’m not having this argument.” He stands up, rummaging for his wallet with nervous hands.

Melissa frowns. “Martin, if you’d just sit down--”

“No.” He finds his wallet, fishes it out, and takes out the sum he owes her for the session. “I’m not letting you ruin this for me, you-- argh.” He slams it on the table and leaves, not listening to her rapidly more alarmed words.

* * *

“Who the fuck says things like that to a patient?” Martin demands.

In his lap, Goose purrs, as she has been patiently doing since he sat down. 

Martin sighs and pets her. “I don’t know, do you think I’m overreacting? She nearly cost me Jon. Am I meant to just look past that? How am I supposed to trust her?”

Goose sits up. Martin winces slightly as her paws dig into his calf. She raises one paw daintily to lick it, and washes her face. 

“I suppose I could send her some articles to explain why she shouldn’t have done that. Right? And either she learns, or she doesn’t; either way, it’ll be easier to decide.” Martin scratches Goose between the ears. “Thank you, you give great advice.”

Goose _mrrp_ s and jumps off his lap. Before Martin can feel abandoned, his phone rings. It’s Jon, and Martin’s already smiling when he answers. “Yes?”

“Are you home?” The sound cuts a bit, loud wind making Jon a bit hard to hear. “I’m in the area, thought I’d drop by.”

“Please,” Martin says, warmed.

Jon comes in with honest to God leaves in his hair. Martin sits on the sofa and directs Jon to sit at his feet. When picks the leaves out, Jon’s head lolls back, relaxed and open, smiling up at him. Martin drops a kiss on his forehead; Jon squirms, pleased, and turns around to rub his face against Martin’s wrists. 

Emotion wells up in Martin, nameable if he dared to say the word. He brushes his fingers down Jon’s cheek instead. “Tea?”

Jon laughs and nods. He stays sat on the floor when Martin gets up to put the kettle on. 

Before he takes the three steps to his kitchenette, Martin’s phone rings. He freezes. If it’s Michael calling to ask him to take another extra shift…. He pinches his nose and accepts the call.

“I must say, Martin, I’m very disappointed in you.”

Martin freezes. He’s good with voices, but git takes him a second to place this one. 

“I thought you could be relied on,” Peter goes on. “I came back and my plants are all dead! Not a single one survived, not even the succulents.”

Next to the sofa, Jon has Goose in his lap, laughing as she bats at his fingers. Martin looks at them with a pounding, fragile heart.

“I will definitely not be asking your help again," Peter says, which is when Martin blurts, "What about the cat?"

That gets Jon's attention: he looks up sharply. Meanwhile, on the phone, Peter draws a breath and, after a moment of silence, says, "This isn't voice mail." He says the words separately, with a tiny but noticeable pause in the middle. 

"No. No it isn't! Good of you to notice that, actually." Martin's breathing fast; he needs air for all the words that come pouring out of him. "Did you also happen to notice that your cat is gone? Or were you warming up by telling me off about plants?"

Fuck. Why, _why_ did he say that? If Peter demanded Goose back, Martin would, he'd--

"Cat," Peter says blankly. "Which... Oh! Right. Cat. Yes, keep it. Have a nice day." He hangs up.

Martin stands there, staring at his phone in outraged disbelief, until Jon clears his throat. 

Martin turns to him, waving his phone like a piece of damning evidence. "I don't think he remembered Goose. Goes on for an hour about the fucking _plants_ , but oh, I can keep the cat! Right! What if I hadn't shown up to feed her, huh? What would have happened then?" 

For a moment, Jon is silent and still except for the hand petting Goose. "But you did," he finally says. "And you _can_ keep her."

Martin blinks and stares at Jon and Goose. "I can," he chokes out, love displacing his anger like a ship displacing water. "I can."

Jon gently hugs Goose to him. "How could anyone forget you?" he croons. "How could anyone not adore you?"

His eyes dart over Goose's purring form to meet Martin's, then dash away. Martin feels his cheeks heat.

Heart still thundering in his chest, Martin sits on the floor next to Jon. He lays his head on Jon's shoulder and closes his eyes. He sighs as Jon's hand slides into his hair, in contentment and relief. 

"I'm very glad that now I'm here to recognize how wonderful you are," Jon informs Goose. "I can't have you not knowing you're lovely."

If tears leak from Martin's eyes, they're hidden in Jon's shoulder as Jon continues to explain his high regard of Goose. Jon's hand stays warm on Martin's head, keeping him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- aphobic amatonormative therapist  
> \- briefly, Peter lukas  
> \- dead houseplants   
> \- brief mention of hypothetical harm to cat
> 
> Thank y'all so much ❤️


End file.
